Chapter 22 - Gone

BLANCHE came in, with a glass of wine in her hand, and saw the
swooning woman on the floor.

She was alarmed, but not surprised, as she knelt by Anne, and
raised her head. Her own previous observation of her friend
necessarily prevented her from being at any loss to account for
the fainting fit. The inevitable delay in getting the wine
was--naturally to her mind--alone to blame for the result which
now met her view.

If she had been less ready in thus tracing the effect to the
cause, she might have gone to the window to see if any thing had
happened, out-of-doors, to frighten Anne--might have seen
Geoffrey before he had time to turn the corner of the house--and,
making that one discovery, might have altered the whole course of
events, not in her coming life only, but in the coming lives of
others. So do we shape our own destinies, blindfold. So do we
hold our poor little tenure of happiness at the capricious mercy
of Chance. It is surely a blessed delusion which persuades us
that we are the highest product of the great scheme of creation,
and sets us doubting whether other planets are inhabited, because
other planets are not surrounded by an atmosphere which _we_ can
breathe!

After trying such simple remedies as were within her reach, and
trying them without success, Blanche became seriously alarmed.
Anne lay, to all outward appearance, dead in her arms. She was on
the point of calling for help--come what might of the discovery
which would ensue--when the door from the hall opened once more,
and Hester Dethridge entered the room.

The cook had accepted the alternative which her mistress's
message had placed before her, if she insisted on having her own
time at her own sole disposal for the rest of that day. Exactly
as Lady Lundie had desired, she intimated her resolution to carry
her point by placing her account-book on the desk in the library.
It was only when this had been done that Blanche received any
answer to her entreaties for help. Slowly and deliberately Hester
Dethridge walked up to the spot where the young girl knelt with
Anne's head on her bosom, and looked at the two without a trace
of human emotion in her stern and stony face.

"Don't you see what's happened?" cried Blanche. "Are you alive or
dead? Oh, Hester, I can't bring her to! Look at her! look at
her!"

Hester Dethridge looked at her, and shook her head. Looked again,
thought for a while and wrote on her slate. Held out the slate
over Anne's body, and showed what she had written:

"Who has done it?"

"You stupid creature!" said Blanche. "Nobody has done it."

The eyes of Hester Dethridge steadily read the worn white face,
telling its own tale of sorrow mutely on Blanche's breast. The
mind of Hester Dethridge steadily looked back at her own
knowledge of her own miserable married life. She again returned
to writing on her slate--again showed the written words to
Blanche.

"Brought to it by a man. Let her be--and God will take her."

"You horrid unfeeling woman! how dare you write such an
abominable thing!" With this natural outburst of indignation,
Blanche looked back at Anne; and, daunted by the death-like
persistency of the swoon, appealed again to the mercy of the
immovable woman who was looking down at her. "Oh, Hester! for
Heaven's sake help me!"

The cook dropped her slate at her side. and bent her head gravely
in sign that she submitted. She motioned to Blanche to loosen
Anne's dress, and then--kneeling on one knee--took Anne to
support her while it was being done.

The instant Hester Dethridge touched her, the swooning woman gave
signs of life.

A faint shudder ran through her from head to foot--her eyelids
trembled--half opened for a moment--and closed again. As they
closed, a low sigh fluttered feebly from her lips.

Hester Dethridge put her back in Blanche's arms--considered a
little with herself--returned to writing on her slate--and held
out the written words once more:

"Shivered when I touched her. That means I have been walking over
her grave."

Blanche turned from the sight of the slate, and from the sight of
the woman, in horror. "You frighten me!" she said. "You will
frighten _ her_ if she sees you. I don't mean to offend you;
but--leave us, please leave us."

Hester Dethridge accepted her dismissal, as she accepted every
thing else. She bowed her head in sign that she
understood--looked for the last time at Anne--dropped a stiff
courtesy to her young mistress--and left the room.

An hour later the butler had paid her, and she had left the
house.

Blanche breathed more freely when she found herself alone. She
could feel the relief now of seeing Anne revive.

"Can you hear me, darling?" she whispered. "Can you let me leave
you for a moment?"

Anne's eyes slowly opened and looked round her--in that torment
and terror of reviving life which marks the awful protest of
humanity against its recall to existence when mortal mercy has
dared to wake it in the arms of Death.

Blanche rested Anne's head against the nearest chair, and ran to
the table upon which she had placed the wine on entering the
room.

After swallowing the first few drops Anne begun to feel the
effect of the stimulant. Blanche persisted in making her empty
the glass, and refrained from asking or answering questions until
her recovery under the influence of the wine was complete.

"You have overexerted yourself this morning," she said, as soon
as it seemed safe to speak. "Nobody has seen you,
darling--nothing has happened. Do you feel like yourself again?"

Anne made an attempt to rise and leave the library; Blanche
placed her gently in the chair, and went on:

"There is not the least need to stir. We have another quarter of
an hour to ourselves before any body is at all likely to disturb
us. I have something to say, Anne--a little proposal to make.
Will you listen to me?"

Anne took Blanche's hand, and p ressed it gratefully to her lips.
She made no other reply. Blanche proceeded:

"I won't ask any questions, my dear--I won't attempt to keep you
here against your will--I won't even remind you of my letter
yesterday. But I can't let you go, Anne, without having my mind
made easy about you in some way. You will relieve all my anxiety,
if you will do one thing--one easy thing for my sake."

"What is it, Blanche?"

She put that question with her mind far away from the subject
before her. Blanche was too eager in pursuit of her object to
notice the absent tone, the purely mechanical manner, in which
Anne had spoken to her.

"I want you to consult my uncle," she answered. "Sir Patrick is
interested in you; Sir Patrick proposed to me this very day to go
and see you at the inn. He is the wisest, the kindest, the
dearest old man living--and you can trust him as you could trust
nobody else. Will you take my uncle into your confidence, and be
guided by his advice?"

With her mind still far away from the subject, Anne looked out
absently at the lawn, and made no answer.

"Come!" said Blanche. "One word isn't much to say. Is it Yes or
No?"

Still looking out on the lawn--still thinking of something
else--Anne yielded, and said "Yes."

Blanche was enchanted. "How well I must have managed it!" she
thought. "This is what my uncle means, when my uncle talks of
'putting it strongly.' "

She bent down over Anne, and gayly patted her on the shoulder.

"That's the wisest 'Yes,' darling, you ever said in your life.
Wait here--and I'll go in to luncheon, or they will be sending to
know what has become of me. Sir Patrick has kept my place for me,
next to himself. I shall contrive to tell him what I want; and
_he_ will contrive (oh, the blessing of having to do with a
clever man; these are so few of them!)--he will contrive to leave
the table before the rest, without exciting any body's
suspicions. Go away with him at once to the summer-house (we have
been at the summer-house all the morning; nobody will go back to
it now), and I will follow you as soon as I have satisfied Lady
Lundie by eating some lunch. Nobody will be any the wiser but our
three selves. In five minutes or less you may expect Sir Patrick.
Let me go! We haven't a moment to lose!"

Anne held her back. Anne's attention was concentrated on her now.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Are you going on happily with Arnold, Blanche?"

"Arnold is nicer than ever, my dear."

"Is the day fixed for your marriage?"

"The day will be ages hence. Not till we are back in town, at the
end of the autumn. Let me go, Anne!"

"Give me a kiss, Blanche."

Blanche kissed her, and tried to release her hand. Anne held it
as if she was drowning, as if her life depended on not letting it
go.

"Will you always love me, Blanche, as you love me now?"

"How can you ask me!"

"_I_ said Yes just now. _You_ say Yes too."

Blanche said it. Anne's eyes fastened on her face, with one long,
yearning look, and then Anne's hand suddenly dropped hers.

She ran out of the room, more agitated, more uneasy, than she
liked to confess to herself. Never had she felt so certain of the
urgent necessity of appealing to Sir Patrick's advice as she felt
at that moment.

The guests were still safe at the luncheon-table when Blanche
entered the dining-room.

Lady Lundie expressed the necessary surprise, in the properly
graduated tone of reproof, at her step-daughter's want of
punctuality. Blanche made her apologies with the most exemplary
humility. She glided into her chair by her uncle's side, and took
the first thing that was offered to her. Sir Patrick looked at
his niece, and found himself in the company of a model young
English Miss--and marveled inwardly what it might mean.

The talk, interrupted for the moment (topics, Politics and
Sport--and then, when a change was wanted, Sport and Politics),
was resumed again all round the table. Under cover of the
conversation, and in the intervals of receiving the attentions of
the gentlemen, Blanche whispered to Sir Patrick, "Don't start,
uncle. Anne is in the library." (Polite Mr. Smith offered some
ham. Gratefully declined.) "Pray, pray, pray go to her; she is
waiting to see you--she is in dreadful trouble." (Gallant Mr.
Jones proposed fruit tart and cream. Accepted with thanks.) "Take
her to the summer-house: I'll follow you when I get the chance.
And manage it at once, uncle, if you love me, or you will be too
late."

Before Sir Patrick could whisper back a word in reply, Lady
Lundie, cutting a cake of the richest Scottish composition, at
the other end of the table, publicly proclaimed it to be her "own
cake," and, as such, offered her brother-in-law a slice. The
slice exhibited an eruption of plums and sweetmeats, overlaid by
a perspiration of butter. It has been said that Sir Patrick had
reached the age of seventy--it is, therefore, needless to add
that he politely declined to commit an unprovoked outrage on his
own stomach.

Sir Patrick saw his way to slipping out of the room under cover
of a compliment to his sister-in-law. He summoned his courtly
smile, and laid his hand on his heart.

"A fallible mortal," he said, "is met by a temptation which he
can not possibly resist. If he is a wise mortal, also, what does
he do?"

"He eats some of My cake," said the prosaic Lady Lundie.

"No!" said Sir Patrick, with a look of unutterable devotion
directed at his sister-in-law.

"He flies temptation, dear lady--as I do now." He bowed, and
escaped, unsuspected, from the room.

Lady Lundie cast down her eyes, with an expression of virtuous
indulgence for human frailty, and divided Sir Patrick's
compliment modestly between herself and her cake.

Well aware that his own departure from the table would be
followed in a few minutes by the rising of the lady of the house,
Sir Patrick hurried to the library as fast as his lame foot would
let him. Now that he was alone, his manner became anxious, and
his face looked grave. He entered the room.

Not a sign of Anne Silvester was to be seen any where. The
library was a perfect solitude.

"Gone!" said Sir Patrick. "This looks bad."

After a moment's reflection he went back into the hall to get his
hat. It was possible that she might have been afraid of discovery
if she staid in the library, and that she might have gone on to
the summer-house by herself.

If she was not to be found in the summer-house, the quieting of
Blanche's mind and the clearing up of her uncle's suspicions
alike depended on discovering the place in which Miss Silvester
had taken refuge. In this case time would be of importance, and
the capacity of making the most of it would be a precious
capacity at starting. Arriving rapidly at these conclusions, Sir
Patrick rang the bell in the hall which communicated with the
servants' offices, and summoned his own valet--a person of tried
discretion and fidelity, nearly as old as himself.

"Get your hat, Duncan," he said, when the valet appeared, "and
come out with me."

Master and servant set forth together silently on their way
through the grounds. Arrived within sight of the summer-house,
Sir Patrick ordered Duncan to wait, and went on by himself.

There was not the least need for the precaution that he had
taken. The summer-house was as empty as the library. He stepped
out again and looked about him. Not a living creature was
visible. Sir Patrick summoned his servant to join him.

"Go back to the stables, Duncan," he said, "and say that Miss
Lundie lends me her pony-carriage to-day. Let it be got ready at
once and kept in the stable-yard. I want to attract as little
notice as possible. You are to go with me, and nobody else.
Provide yourself with a railway time-table. Have you got any
money?"

"Yes, Sir Patrick."

"Did you happen to see the governess (Miss Silvester) on the day
when we came here--the day of the lawn-party?"

"I did, Sir Patrick."

"Should you know her again?"

"I thought her a very distinguished-looking person, Sir Patrick.
I should certainly know her again."

"Have you any reason to think she noticed you?"

"She never even looked at me,
Sir Patrick."

"Very good. Put a change of linen into your bag, Duncan--I may
possibly want you to take a journey by railway. Wait for me in
the stable-yard. This is a matter in which every thing is trusted
to my discretion, and to yours."

"Thank you, Sir Patrick."

With that acknowledgment of the compliment which had been just
paid to him, Duncan gravely went his way to the stables; and
Duncan's master returned to the summer-house, to wait there until
he was joined by Blanche.

Sir Patrick showed signs of failing patience during the interval
of expectation through which he was now condemned to pass. He
applied perpetually to the snuff-box in the knob of his cane. He
fidgeted incessantly in and out of the summer-house. Anne's
disappearance had placed a serious obstacle in the way of further
discovery; and there was no attacking that obstacle, until
precious time had been wasted in waiting to see Blanche.

At last she appeared in view, from the steps of the summer-house;
breathless and eager, hasting to the place of meeting as fast as
her feet would take her to it.

Sir Patrick considerately advanced, to spare her the shock of
making the inevitable discovery. "Blanche," he said. "Try to
prepare yourself, my dear, for a disappointment. I am alone."

"You don't mean that you have let her go?"

"My poor child! I have never seen her at all."

Blanche pushed by him, and ran into the summer-house. Sir Patrick
followed her. She came out again to meet him, with a look of
blank despair. "Oh, uncle! I did so truly pity her! And see how
little pity she has for _me!_"

Sir Patrick put his arm round his niece, and softly patted the
fair young head that dropped on his shoulder.

"Don't let us judge her harshly, my dear: we don't know what
serious necessity may not plead her excuse. It is plain that she
can trust nobody--and that she only consented to see me to get
you out of the room and spare you the pain of parting. Compose
yourself, Blanche. I don't despair of discovering where she has
gone, if you will help me."

Blanche lifted her head, and dried her tears bravely.

"My father himself wasn't kinder to me than you are," she said.
"Only tell me, uncle, what I can do!"

"I want to hear exactly what happened in the library," said Sir
Patrick. "Forget nothing, my dear child, no matter how trifling
it may be. Trifles are precious to us, and minutes are precious
to us, now."

Blanche followed her instructions to the letter, her uncle
listening with the closest attention. When she had completed her
narrative, Sir Patrick suggested leaving the summer-house. "I
have ordered your chaise," he said; "and I can tell you what I
propose doing on our way to the stable-yard."

"Let me drive you, uncle!"

"Forgive me, my dear, for saying No to that. Your step-mother's
suspicions are very easily excited--and you had better not be
seen with me if my inquiries take me to the Craig Fernie inn. I
promise, if you will remain here, to tell you every thing when I
come back. Join the others in any plan they have for the
afternoon--and you will prevent my absence from exciting any
thing more than a passing remark. You will do as I tell you?
That's a good girl! Now you shall hear how I propose to search
for this poor lady, and how your little story has helped me."

He paused, considering with himself whether he should begin by
telling Blanche of his consultation with Geoffrey. Once more, he
decided that question in the negative. Better to still defer
taking her into his confidence until he had performed the errand
of investigation on which he was now setting forth.

"What you have told me, Blanche, divides itself, in my mind, into
two heads," began Sir Patrick. "There is what happened in the
library before your own eyes; and there is what Miss Silvester
told you had happened at the inn. As to the event in the library
(in the first place), it is too late now to inquire whether that
fainting-fit was the result, as you say, of mere exhaustion--or
whether it was the result of something that occurred while you
were out of the room."

"What could have happened while I was out of the room?"

"I know no more than you do, my dear. It is simply one of the
possibilities in the case, and, as such, I notice it. To get on
to what practically concerns us; if Miss Silvester is in delicate
health it is impossible that she could get, unassisted, to any
great distance from Windygates. She may have taken refuge in one
of the cottages in our immediate neighborhood. Or she may have
met with some passing vehicle from one of the farms on its way to
the station, and may have asked the person driving to give her a
seat in it. Or she may have walked as far as she can, and may
have stopped to rest in some sheltered place, among the lanes to
the south of this house."

"I'll inquire at the cottages, uncle, while you are gone."

"My dear child, there must be a dozen cottages, at least, within
a circle of one mile from Windygates! Your inquiries would
probably occupy you for the whole afternoon. I won't ask what
Lady Lundie would think of your being away all that time by
yourself. I will only remind you of two things. You would be
making a public matter of an investigation which it is essential
to pursue as privately as possible; and, even if you happened to
hit on the right cottage your inquiries would be completely
baffled, and you would discover nothing."

"Why not?"

"I know the Scottish peasant better than you do, Blanche. In his
intelligence and his sense of self-respect he is a very different
being from the English peasant. He would receive you civilly,
because you are a young lady; but he would let you see, at the
same time, that he considered you had taken advantage of the
difference between your position and his position to commit an
intrusion. And if Miss Silvester had appealed, in confidence, to
his hospitality, and if he had granted it, no power on earth
would induce him to tell any person living that she was under his
roof--without her express permission."

"But, uncle, if it's of no use making inquiries of any body, how
are we to find her?"

"I don't say that nobody will answer our inquiries, my dear--I
only say the peasantry won't answer them, if your friend has
trusted herself to their protection. The way to find her is to
look on, beyond what Miss Silvester may be doing at the present
moment, to what Miss Silvester contemplates doing--let us say,
before the day is out. We may assume, I think (after what has
happened), that, as soon as she can leave this neighborhood, she
assuredly will leave it. Do you agree, so far?"

"Yes! yes! Go on."

"Very well. She is a woman, and she is (to say the least of it)
not strong. She can only leave this neighborhood either by hiring
a vehicle or by traveling on the railway. I propose going first
to the station. At the rate at which your pony gets over the
ground, there is a fair chance, in spite of the time we have
lost, of my being there as soon as she is--assuming that she
leaves by the first train, up or down, that passes."

"There is a train in half an hour, uncle. She can never get there
in time for that."

"She may be less exhausted than we think; or she may get a lift;
or she may not be alone. How do we know but somebody may have
been waiting in the lane--her husband, if there is such a
person--to help her? No! I shall assume she is now on her way to
the station; and I shall get there as fast as possible--"

"And stop her, if you find her there?"

"What I do, Blanche, must be left to my discretion. If I find her
there, I must act for the best. If I don't find her there, I
shall leave Duncan (who goes with me) on the watch for the
remaining trains, until the last to-night. He knows Miss
Silvester by sight, and he is sure that _she_ has never noticed
_him._ Whether she goes north or south, early or late, Duncan
will have my orders to follow her. He is thoroughly to be relied
on. If she takes the railway, I answer for it we shall know where
she goes."

"How clever of you to think of Duncan!"

"Not in the least, my dear. Duncan is my factotum; and the course
I am taking is the obvious course which would have occurred to
any body. Let us get to the re ally difficult part of it now.
Suppose she hires a carriage?"

"There are none to be had, except at the station."

"There are farmers about here - and farmers have light carts, or
chaises, or something of the sort. It is in the last degree
unlikely that they would consent to let her have them. Still,
women break through difficulties which stop men. And this is a
clever woman, Blanche--a woman, you may depend on it, who is bent
on preventing you from tracing her. I confess I wish we had
somebody we could trust lounging about where those two roads
branch off from the road that leads to the railway. I must go in
another direction; _I_ can't do it."

"Arnold can do it!"

Sir Patrick looked a little doubtful. "Arnold is an excellent
fellow," he said. "But can we trust to his discretion?"

"He is, next to you, the most perfectly discreet person I know,"
rejoined Blanche, in a very positive manner; "and, what is more,
I have told him every thing about Anne, except what has happened
to-day. I am afraid I shall tell him _that,_ when I feel lonely
and miserable, after you have gone. There is something in
Arnold--I don't know what it is--that comforts me. Besides, do
you think he would betray a secret that I gave him to keep? You
don't know how devoted he is to me!"

"My dear Blanche, I am not the cherished object of his devotion;
of course I don't know! You are the only authority on that point.
I stand corrected. Let us have Arnold, by all means. Caution him
to be careful; and send him out by himself, where the roads meet.
We have now only one other place left in which there is a chance
of finding a trace of her. I undertake to make the necessary
investigation at the Craig Fernie inn."

"The Craig Fernie inn? Uncle! you have forgotten what I told
you."

"Wait a little, my dear. Miss Silvester herself has left the inn,
I grant you. But (if we should unhappily fail in finding her by
any other means) Miss Silvester has left a trace to guide us at
Craig Fernie. That trace must be picked up at once, in case of
accidents. You don't seem to follow me? I am getting over the
ground as fast as the pony gets over it. I have arrived at the
second of those two heads into which your story divides itself in
my mind. What did Miss Silvester tell you had happened at the
inn?"

"She lost a letter at the inn."

"Exactly. She lost a letter at the inn; that is one event. And
Bishopriggs, the waiter, has quarreled with Mrs. Inchbare, and
has left his situation; that is another event. As to the letter
first. It is either really lost, or it has been stolen. In either
case, if we can lay our hands on it, there is at least a chance
of its helping us to discover something. As to Bishopriggs,
next--"

"You're not going to talk about the waiter, surely?"

"I am! Bishopriggs possesses two important merits. He is a link
in my chain of reasoning; and he is an old friend of mine."

"A friend of yours?"

"We live in days, my dear, when one workman talks of another
workman as 'that gentleman.'--I march with the age, and feel
bound to mention my clerk as my friend. A few years since
Bishopriggs was employed in the clerks' room at my chambers. He
is one of the most intelligent and most unscrupulous old
vagabonds in Scotland; perfectly honest as to all average matters
involving pounds, shillings, and pence; perfectly unprincipled in
the pursuit of his own interests, where the violation of a trust
lies on the boundary-line which marks the limit of the law. I
made two unpleasant discoveries when I had him in my employment.
I found that he had contrived to supply himself with a duplicate
of my seal; and I had the strongest reason to suspect him of
tampering with some papers belonging to two of my clients. He had
done no actual mischief, so far; and I had no time to waste in
making out the necessary case against him. He was dismissed from
my service, as a man who was not to be trusted to respect any
letters or papers that happened to pass through his hands."

"I see, uncle! I see!"

"Plain enough now--isn't it? If that missing letter of Miss
Silvester's is a letter of no importance, I am inclined to
believe that it is merely lost, and may be found again. If, on
the other hand, there is any thing in it that could promise the
most remote advantage to any person in possession of it, then, in
the execrable slang of the day, I will lay any odds, Blanche,
that Bishopriggs has got the letter!"

"And he has left the inn! How unfortunate!"

"Unfortunate as causing delay--nothing worse than that. Unless I
am very much mistaken, Bishopriggs will come back to the inn. The
old rascal (there is no denying it) is a most amusing person. He
left a terrible blank when he left my clerks' room. Old customers
at Craig Fernie (especially the English), in missing Bishopriggs,
will, you may rely on it, miss one of the attractions of the inn.
Mrs. Inchbare is not a woman to let her dignity stand in the way
of her business. She and Bishopriggs will come together again,
sooner or later, and make it up. When I have put certain
questions to her, which may possibly lead to very important
results, I shall leave a letter for Bishopriggs in Mrs.
Inchbare's hands. The letter will tell him I have something for
him to do, and will contain an address at which he can write to
me. I shall hear of him, Blanche and, if the letter is in his
possession, I shall get it."

"Won't he be afraid--if he has stolen the letter--to tell you he
has got it?"

"Very well put, my child. He might hesitate with other people.
But I have my own way of dealing with him - and I know how to
make him tell Me.--Enough of Bishopriggs till his time comes.
There is one other point, in regard to Miss Silvester. I may have
to describe her. How was she dressed when she came here?
Remember, I am a man--and (if an Englishwoman's dress _can_ be
described in an Englishwoman's language) tell me, in English,
what she had on."

"She wore a straw hat, with corn-flowers in it, and a white veil.
Corn-flowers at one side uncle, which is less common than
cornflowers in front. And she had on a light gray shawl. And a
_Piqué_--"

"There you go with your French! Not a word more! A straw hat,
with a white veil, and with corn-flowers at one side of the hat.
And a light gray shawl. That's as much as the ordinary male mind
can take in; and that will do. I have got my instructions, and
saved precious time. So far so good. Here we are at the end of
our conference--in other words, at the gate of the stable-yard.
You understand what you have to do while I am away?"

"I have to send Arnold to the cross-roads. And I have to behave
(if I can) as if nothing had happened."

"Good child! Well put again! you have got what I call grasp of
mind, Blanche. An invaluable faculty! You will govern the future
domestic kingdom. Arnold will be nothing but a constitutional
husband. Those are the only husbands who are thoroughly happy.
You shall hear every thing, my love, when I come lack. Got your
bag, Duncan? Good. And the time-table? Good. You take the
reins--I won't drive. I want to think. Driving is incompatible
with intellectual exertion. A man puts his mind into his horse,
and sinks to the level of that useful animal--as a necessary
condition of getting to his destination without being upset. God
bless you, Blanche! To the station, Duncan! to the station!"